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CflPXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



INTERLUDES 



INTERLUDES 



By 

HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS 




NEW YORK. 

JAMES T. WHITE & CO., 

1918 









n"^ 



For permission to reprint many of these 
poems I desire to thank the editors 
and jHiblishers of The Smart Set, The 
BeihnaH, Contemporary Verse, The Bos- 
ton Transcript, Poetry : A Magazine of 
Ve7se, The Madrigal, The Midland, 
The New York Tribune, The Pagan, 
The Stratford fournal. The Quill, 
Southern Woman's Maf^azine, The 
Masses, Railroad Man's Magazine, 
The New York Sun, Parisienne, The 
Book News Monthly, The Lyric, Social 
Progress, and other periodicals. 



COPYRIGHTED 1916 BY 
JAMES T *Hlr E a CO. 



m -0 1919 

©CI.A51.lo7 5 



I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK 

TO 

MY MOTHER AND FATHER 



CONTENTS 
Interludes 

a song for the makers of songs 12 

questant 1 3 

SHADOW 13 

UNCONQUERED 15 

BROTHERS 16 

REUBEN ROY 18 

I AM A LOVER OF CITIES 20 

DRIFTWOOD 21 

THE TREAD OF PAN 22 

MY CHILDREN 23 

THEN AND NOW 25 

GLAMOUR 26 

THE JESTER 29 

ECHOES 30 

HELEN, NOT OF TROY 3 1 

WILL-O'-THE-WISP 32 

THE SCHOOLMASTER 33 

WANDER SONG 35 

A PORTRAIT 36 

NOCTURNE 37 

AT DUSK OF DAY 38 



CO'STE'STS— Continued 

LIFE 39 

WISDOM +o 

THE MADMEN 41 

A RHYME OF THE RED ROMANCE 42 

APOSTASY 44 

LIMBO 45 

TO YOU WHOM I DARED NOT SEE 46 

WAYFARERS 47 

I HAVE MADE TWO SONGS FOR YOU 48 

M AURYA 49 

QUANDARY 5 1 

CAOINE 52 

JILL, DO YOU REMEMLER? 53 

PERADVENTURE 54 

VILLON 55 

GOD IS SINGING 56 

THERE ARE TWO LADIES IN OUR LITTLE TOWN 57 

THE PRAYER OF ISEULT OF THE WHITE HANDS 58 

A LITTLE TOWN 59 

SOUNDS 60 

GOD 61 

A vagrant's RHYME 62 

RUE 63 



CONTENTS— Cow/inwr^ 

GOSSIP 64 

HAUNTS 65 

under the sea 66 

interval 67 

Ragnarok 

WAR 71 

A PRAYER 72 

THERE ARE NO DOYS IN COLLEGE NOW 73 

AS OF YORE 74 

SOULS 75 

WHO WILL BUY OUR DREAMS 76 

EXORDIUM 77 

THE SACRIFICE 78 

MASTER FRANQOIS, CLERK OF PARIS, SINGS FROM 

THE GRAVE 79 

THE SILENT SINGERS 80 

JOAN OF ARC WAS THERE 81 

ROBIN HOOD 82 

"VIVE LA FRANCE !" 83 

"BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE, AND AWAY!" 84 

IN A HOSPITAL 85 

CUL-DE-SAC 86 

A LITTLE SONG 87 



INTERLUDES 



A SONG FOR THE MAKERS OF SONG 

Sonf[ is our bread, 

Sofig is our wine; 
Tables are spread — 

Lei us dine! 

Lanterns are moons. 

Candles are stars. 
Poets make tunes 

Out of scars. 

Elves' eyes are brown, 

Roses have ears. 
Some poets drown 

Ln their tears. 

Song grinds the mill. 

Song reaps the wheat; 

Life pays the bill — 
Let us eat! 



QUESTANT 

IS there a dream 
In all the earth, 
Be it wistful 

Or full of mirth, 

That I can take 

And weave in a song 
To sing to you 

Your whole life long? 

Is there a dream 

Under the sun. 
Be it sorrowful 

Or full of fun, 

From which I can make 

A song for you, 
A song all shimmering 

Through and through 

Like a very jewel 

Or tlie moon's beams . . . ? 
Tell me, lady, 

Are there such dreams? 



13 



SHADOW 

IT comes at night, 
When the moon is bright 
And the stars spray Earth 
With a silver mist; 

It comes from the hills, 
Whose purling rills 
Call youth from toil 

To a dreamland tryst; 

It comes from the wood 
Where the elf-elm stood. 
And the elves once played 
So long ago; 

It comes on the breeze 
Of distant seas. 
The breasts of which 
No sailors know; 

It comes at dawn. 
When night has gone 
Like a vulture-hawk 
Upon the wing; 

It glows and gleams 
Through all men's dreams: 
The song no words 

Have learned to sing. 

14 



UNCONQUERED 
(Electricity speaks:) 

I move your mills and your trains, 
I talk to your friends and foes — 
Up hill, down dale, in calm and gale, 
Wherever your pleasure goes! 

I steer your ships in the night, 
I manage your belching guns, 

I flash your words, I forge your swords 
As fast as your craving runs! 

But when you call me a slave. 
Remember my daily toll! . . . 

My brawn your chain, but not my brain. 
Nor the secret of my soul! 



15 



BROTHERS 

MY brother wandered far and wide 
To find the rainbow's end, 
While I stayed home till father died 

To run the farm and half-pretend 
I loved the work — the long, hot daj^s 

In meadow, field and dyke. 
The winter months before the blaze, 
Debarred from everything I like. 

And after father died I staj'ed, 

Because a farm, I'm sure, 
Is pleasanter than any trade, 

In spite of all one must endure. 
Our farm, through diligence, has paid, 

And I am satisfied; 
Sometime my brother's dreams will fade 

And show him how a rainbow lied. 

He lives a year in old Cathay, 

A year in Greece or France. 
I read his letters day by day 

And in the cornfield weave romance. 
Lest I should be a loutish thing 

When he comes home again 
To tell me stories and to bring 

A whiff from lands beyond my ken. 

16 



1 know today wliat I shall do: 

Hitch up the buckboard team 
And meet the train at half-past two 

That stops an hour to get up steam. 
My brother, in his careless way, 

Will pile his bags on me, 
Then clamber to my side and say: 

"You haven't changed — as I can see." 

While he is hunting I shall work, 

But when the nighttime falls. 
He'll spin me tales of Kurd and Turk. 

Of French chateaux and Chinese walls. 
And I shall smile and listen well 

And ask him so-and-so . . . 
Oh, I shall never have to tell. 

And he will never have to know. 



17 



REUBEN ROY 

A LITTLE fellow, brown with wiiid- 
I saw him in the street 
Peering at numbers on the posts, 
But most discreet, 

For when a woman came outdoors, — 

Or slyly peeped instead, — 
He'd turn away, take off his hat 
And scratch his head. 

I watched him from my garden-wall 
Perhaps an hour or more, 

For something in his attitude, 
The clothes he wore, 

Awoke the dimmest memories 

Of when I was a boy 
And knew the story of a man 

Named Reuben Roy. 

It seems that Reuben went to sea 
The night his wife decried 

The fence he built before their house 
And on the side. 

He wanted it but she did not, 
Because it hid from view 

The spot in which her mignonette 
And tulips grew. 

18 



Nobody saw his face again, 
But each year, unawares, 

He sent a sum for taxes due — 
And fence repairs. 

My curiosity aroused, 

I sauntered forth to see 

Whether this individual 
Were really he. 

"Who are you looking for?" I asked. 

His eyes, like two bright pence 
Sparkled at mine, and then he said: 

"A fence." 

"Somebody burned it Halloween, 
When people were in bed; 

Before the judge could prosecute 
The culprit fled." 

Well, Reuben only touched his hat 
And mumbled, "Thank you, sir," 

And asked me whereabouts to find 
A carpenter. 



19 



I AM A LOVER OF CITIES 

I AM a lover of cities, 
Streets that are paved and electric lights, 
Whir of wheels and the myriad ditties 

Flung through the murk of throbbing nights. 

You who would brag of the meadows. 

Songs of birds and the soft, cool dew, 

Walk with me at the hour of shadows 
Down a rain-gilt avenue! 

I am a lover of places 

Brimming and panting with life and love . . . 
Trade one block for a mountain's graces? 

No! Nor its lamps for the stars above! 



20 



DRIFTWOOD 

I AM a piece of Driftwood. 
Mike Slanner, the village scavenger, 
Found me on the shore of Crooked Brook 
And nailed me into the floor of his hut. 
Bums, 
Thieves, 

Rats and cockroaches 
Walk over me . . . and yet . . . 

Once, very long ago, 

I was an apple tree in France — Domremy. 

A little girl 

With wooden shoes and dreams 

Used to lean against me 

And look into the sky. 

I had dreams, too. . . . 

I am a piece of driftwood 

In Mike Slanner's hut on Crooked Brook. 



21 



THE TREAD OF PAX 

IF you £r.d a daSodil 
r bbing in the sna. 
If Tcu see a silver rill 
Faster, faster run. 

If you hear sweet echeir-g 
At the break o'day. 

You ■will know Par/s frolicki 
Xot so far awav! 



MY CHILDREN 

Maury a 

THE stars — did you ever see stars 
Not white, 
Nor blue. 
But both? 

And violets that dared to grow 
Beside a grizzled stone 
In a wood? 

Rupert 
I had a sword 

Long, long ago when I was a boy — 
A rapier. 

The ebony hilt was cracked. . . . 
"Open, in the name — " — Crash! 
Screams, firelight, 
White arms, candles. . . . 



Sheila 
Twenty-four dreams. 
Twelve for daylight in Spring; 
Twelve for nighttime in December. 
Dreams, dreams. 
Tender little things 

23 



Like pansies 
And babies' ears 
And the catch in your throat- 
When some one says, 
"Jeanne d'Arc." 

Charles 
"Yes, Madam, to the sea. 
His new sedan — this morning. 
Yes, Madam, to the sea." 
Cliff and wind and sun, 
Sun and cliff and wind. 
Wind and sun and cliff. 
"Yes, Madam, to the sea." 



24 



THEN AND NOW 

I NEVER knew how strong life was 
Till love passed by my gate; 
I never knew the wrong life does 
Till love walked in — too late. 



25 



GLAMOUR 

A RED sun tortured the tawdry crowd 
Surging along the street; 
A flower-vender babhled loud 

Of things she misnamed sweet; 

Dogs were fighting away in the dirt 

Because of a measly feast; 
A woman neared our table to flirt . . . 

And Rawley murmured, "The East!" 

Rawley had been at the mine a week. 

A Mundy novel or two 
Had brought him out on the jump to seek 

Adventure. They sometimes do. 

He downed his glass at a gulp and cried, 

"Isn't it great and wild! 
It makes me feel like a god untried!" 

Kavanaugh only smiled. 

"Certainly, Rawlc}-, my lad," said he, 

"It's all very nice to you. 
The color and blaze, I must agree. 

Are great — so long as they're new. 

26 



"I've got a story I want to tell — 

If most of yon chaps don't care?" 

And then he paused till a languid bell 

Had summoned the town to prayer. . . 



"Father was stationed at Singapore, 
And there I opened my eyes 

And closed my ears to the hellish roar 
And the far-famed Chinese lies. 



"When I was fifteen, mother died, 

And relatives thought it best 
To ship me out — though I cursed and cried- 

For schooling and all the rest. 



"You see, I fell for the peaceful ways 
I learned in my father's home: 

Snoozing away the dreamy days 
And using the nights to roam. 



"Winter it was when I reached the States, 
Christmas and — you boys know. 

Think of the novelty: skis and skates 
And the earth all glinting snow! 

27 



"I lived in a quaint New England manse — 

Little and white and clean — 
That seemed a palace of grand romance, 

With everything, — sure! a queen; 

"Oh, she was a kid with hair like gold 

And eyes just built for fun! 
We studied at night, when all was cold. 

And played each day in the sun. 

"The months flew on in a careless way 

Until the roses came; 
Then the queen grew weary . . . and went away 

And things weren't quite the same. . . . 

"Rawley, my lad, so this is romance? 

Well, maybe it is for you; 
For me, it's an ivy-covered manse, 

And meadows wet with dew. 

"Mystery here, and the glamour-land? 

People differ, you know; 
I'd trade the riches of Samarkand 

For stars on a field of snow!" 

Kavanaugh stopped; it was still as death, 
For most of us knew the goods; 

Then Rawley started, under his breath, 
" — The hush of the Mahim woods. — " 

28 



THE JESTER 

MY friends, kind friends, withhold your blame 
Until my dust blows down the wind. 
Nor praise me, lest I blush with shame. 
Until I play the last, grim game 
And leave my dreams behind. 

My friends, dear friends, reserve your tears, — 
No thing of worth can grow from chaff, — 

But when the least among you hears 

The sob and sigh of dying years. 
Remember me, and laugh. 



29 



FXHOES 

MY two old salts are funny chaps; 
From dawn till dark they sit outdoors 
With brass-bound books upon their laps 
And talk, I think, of pirate wars. 

I watch them from my shadowed lawn 
Across the sprinkled, muddy street, 

Their well-worn blouses loosely drawn 
And carpet slippers on their feet. 

Oh, they are garrulous enough 

When no one comes to interfere. 
Because their voices, quick and gruff, 

Are quite the only sounds I hear. 

Yet when I cross and join them there 

Where cool, white boughs whisk to and fro. 

They nod and smile but scorn to share 
The meanest tale of all they know. 

W^e damn the heat in quiet tones . . . 

jind each of us, as sure as doom, 
Is dancing under Skull and Bones 

To clang of sivord and cannon boom! 



HELEN, NOT OF TROY 

HERO-KINGS of old 
Launched a thousand ships 
When a Trojan, overbold, 

Touched a Greek girl's lips. 

She, of course, was fair, 

Else would chivalry 
In its eagerness to dare 

Cross a haunted sea? 

You who bear her name 

Dim her from afar, 
As the moon a candle's flame. 

As the sun a star! 

Lovelier than love, 

Merrier than joy, 
Helen I am singing of — 

Helen, not of Troy! 



September 9 



31 



WILL-O'-THE-WISP 

I HAVE seen love in the dark, 
Gleaming like an anvil-spark; 
I have seen love in the dawn, 
Dancing on and on and on! 

I have heard love's madrigal, 
Every lyric rise and fall 
Glad as laughter in the Spring, 
Sad as Autumn's whispering. 

I have heard love tune a star — 
Always faint and fair and far; 
I have seen love climh the j^ears- 
Always through a mist of tears. . . 



32 



THE SCHOOLMASTER 

FOUR o'clock and work is over; 
All the little lads and lasses 
Wander home through the clover, 
Through the grasses. . . . 

And I can dream — 

Of what? 

Well, Camelot, 

Or border-thieves 

Who have crossed the stream 

And catch the gleam 

Of a town ahead — oh, each horse heaves 

For the day is hot! . . . 

Or let me dream of a city street, 

Where rich-man, poor-man, beggar-man meet; 

A street just shining after a rain, 

Where women, very fair and sweet, 

Flash by in high disdain. . . . 

Four o'clock and work is over; 

All the little lads and lasses 
Wander home through the clover. 

Through the grasses. . . . 

And I can dream. . . . 

33 



Some morning they will find the door 
Bolted, and when the yokels pour 
Into the room, they will see 
Sorry me 

Lying there with my poor, old head 
Open wide, and my dreams on the floor. 
And all of us, who were underfed, 
Quite dead. 



34 



WANDER SONGS 

Today 

A QUIET road and the deep dust 
And nowhere to go but on, on; 
A fire at night and hard crust, 
A dream and a song at dawn! 

A roof is the thing when storms blow. 
And silver and gold inake light load, 

But where can my singing dreams grow 
So fair as along the road? 

Tomorrow 
A little house is all I ask, 

(I see its shadow in the fire), 
To dream by day my only task, 

To dream by night my one desire. 

The roses kindle on its walls 

And choke the gravel garden-walk, 
Where robin sings and bobwhite calls 

And happy cliildren laugh and talk. 

A wee, white house — all mine! Just wait; 

Some night when God regrets my scars 
He'll lead me gently to the gate 

And put on guard a crowd of stars. 

35 



A PORTRAIT 

A ZEPHYR from the evcr-nuirmurous ocean 
Seemed, in a spirit full of sweetest praise, 
To kiss the tendrils of her hair to motion. 
To hide the silver strands of after-days. 

In her brown eyes, bedimmed with tears of yearning, 
There shone at once a passionate, girlish gleam. 

I dreamed of roses in the winter burning, 

And sunbeams shimmering through a shaded 
stream. 



36 



NOCTURNE 

THE niglit-wind wailed about the eaves 
And hurled against my window pane 
Bits of dead branches and sodden leaver, 
And wisps of rain. 

A shutter raised; the night-wind found 
A quiet form upon my bed. . . . 

Oh, what are night and wind and sound, 
When one is dead? 



n 



AT DUSK OF DAY 

GLIMMERING over the marshes, 
It calls me still, 
Though I have lived long years 
High on a hill. 

Where winds and the little stars 

Lull me to sleep 
As night creeps on and on 

Out of the deep. 

Once, in a twilight wood, 

I walked alone; 
Suddenly something whispered — 

And then it shone! 

I pressed it to my breast. 

Until my heart 
Burst into flames and scattered 

The fairer part. 

And so on mj' windy hill, 

At dusk of day, 
My heart knows the bit of a dream 

It lost for aye. 



38 



LIFE 

WHEN I was young and gay and proud, 
A woman sneered and passed me by. 
Self-pitying, I wailed aloud: 
"O God, I want to die!" 

When I am old and mean and sour. 

The whole world sneers, and I forgive. 

I whisper dully, hour by hour: 
"O God, I want to live!" 



39 



WISDOiM 

HOP- A LONG Callahan 
Hopped too far. . . . 
He burned his fingers one fair night 
Plucking at a star. 

Bridget o'the Crossroads 

Told me true: 
Wherever Pan kissed mortal lips, 

There a wild rose grew. 

"Never sit a-dreaming 

Underneath the moon," 
Said Sarah Jane, "or learn the truth 

All too soon." 



40 



THE MADMEN 

THEY find it — God, what you will — 
In the heart of a rose, 
Or a pool of mud, 
Or a woman's soul. 
And God, 
Lest He be drawn 

Through highway, field and market-place, 
Whispers' in the ears of the rest: 
"Listen not to their talk; 
Hide them away from the world; 
They are mad." 



41 



A RHYME OF THE RED ROMANCE 

I HAVE seen Egyptian armies cringe before the 
Hyksos spears 
Where the fires of NiUis driftwood redly 
gleamed; 
I have known in mean, small years 
Myriad joys and myriad fears — 

I have stormed the walls of Elfland, I have 
dreamed! 

Alexander, Cyrus, Caesar, name one hero of them all 
In whose council-tent I have not planned and 
schemed; 

Name one lover of a brawl 

Who has sent me fruitless call — 

I have lived in gay Valhalla. I have dreamed! 

When the "sauve qui peut!" rang madly down the 
field of Waterloo, 
It was I who spiked the cannon where they 
screamed; 
When at Five Forks Lee withdrew. 
Leaving glory to tlie Blue, 

I and Sheridan were schoolboys — I have 
dreamed! 



42 



Ages pass like little minutes, kings and nations fade 
away, 
While I fill the castles thought of mine has 
teemed. 
Take tlie gold I scorn, and play — 
1 have mined the yesterday, 

I have stormed the walls of Elfland, I have 
dreamed ! 



43 



APOSTASY 

YOU and I beside the ember-glow; 
Quiet, and the shadows ever3'where. 
Nothing but the eyes and lips I know. 
And your hair. 

Life and death, the world and dreary wars- 
I am tired of thinking; let me rest. 

Nothing is, or seems, but night, tlic stars . . 
And your breast. 



44 



LIMBO 

IF you and I were old, 
How good this crackling fire would seem! 
Before it we could sit and dream 
Of all the myths romancers told 
When girls were fair and knights were bold. 
How we should talk and plan and scheme, 
H you and I were old! 

If you and I were young, 

The meadow lands of far-away 
Would call us at the break of day 

To seek their breasts, where flowers had clung 

And all the poet-birds had sung. 
We should forget today in play. 

If you and I were young. 

But you and I, my dear. 

Are not quite old enough to know 
The need and cheer of ember-glow. 

Nor yet quite young enough to hear 

Forgotten calls of wood and weir. . . . 

We are in limbo — spare a tear 
For by-and-by and long-ago! 



45 



TO YOU WHOM I DARED NOT SEE 

YEARS and years ago 
You and I, my dear, 
Knew what lovers know, 
Feared what lovers fear. 

Only yesterday 

I passed througli the town, 
Quiet, sombre, gray, 

Wliere you settled down. 

For the tiniest space — 

Please to understand! — 
I would see your face, 

I would hold your hand. 

Then I thought of things 

Every mortal knows 
Apropos of Springs, 

Beauty and the rose. 

Years and years ago . . . 
Let our song be sung! 
We did so-and-so — 

Bui the ivorld ivus young! 



^6 



WAYFARERS 

WHEN I am dead, and stumbling through the 
gloom 
Down paths where other dim and sad ghosts 

fare, 
I'll grieve until you thrill along the air, 
The only gleam of light in that vast tomb. 

When I am dead, and lonely longing grips 
My inner soul to hear a song again. 
The dark will roll away a moment — then 

My name will glow to music on your lips! 

When I am dead, and finally understand 

How dear our comradship on earth had been, 
You'll come with word of stranger worlds to 
win. 

And we shall wander toward them, hand in hand. 



47 



I HAVE MADE TWO SONGS FOR YOU 

I HAVE made two songs for you: 
One for heaven, one for hell, 
One that you can tell to few, 
One that you can never tell. 

I have planned them all these years; 

Out of star-dust one was made, 
And the other, dull with tears. 

Out of twilight and blue shade. 

I have made two songs for you: 
One for giving, one to hold. 

Sing the first, as youth must do; 
Hug the last when you arc old. 



48 



MAURYA 

(For Katherine) 

MAURYA came in the Springtiiv 
A wistful bit of a thing; 
Oh, Maurya came in the Springtime, 
And the morn's awakening. 

We found her at our doorstep, 

A gift of the mystic Shee, 
And so she lived from then on 

With mother, father and me. 

Father would toss her arms-high. 
Or dandle her on his knee; 

Mother would sing her to sleep nights; 
And I — she was nought to me. 

As strong, she grew, as a larch tree, 
With eyes like a bluebird's wings. 

And hair the shade of an ash-bud. I — 
I told her none of these things. 

One night, in the Spring, when crossing 
The glen where she used to play, 

I heard, a laugh, all soft-like; 

"Slan leat!" it seemed to say; 



49 



And when I got to our cottage. 

There mother, on father's breast, 
Was sobbing, "O Maurya, Maurya!" — 
And both of the dears had guessed 

Father sighs when the birds come 
To nest in our whitethorn tree; 

Mother ^veeps when the birds come; 
And I . . . she was nought to me. 

(Slan leat: Farewell) 



50 



QUANDARY 

I WOULD sing you songs 
Dawn and evening, 
Sad songs, mad songs, 
About everything — 

Passion and flowers, 

Starlight and dew. . . , 

This alone hinders: 
Who are you? 



51 



CAOINE 

SPRING again, and the green things growing, 
Birds in song and the roses blown; 
Spring again, but it's I am knowing 

Spring is dead when a dream has flown. 

Colleens laugh at the lads they're meeting, 

All of the world is love in tune 
Thrilling the air, and blithely greeting 

Life and youth and another June. 

Spring again, and the starlings flying 

Over a land where the glad elves tread; 

Spring again, but my heart is crying — 

"Spring means nought when a dream is dead. 



52 



JILL, DO YOU REMEMBER? 

JILL, do you remember 
How in wintry weatlier, 
Snowy, wild December, 

We would fare together • 

To the little grill 

Always open wide, 
Where was room for Jill, 

Jack — and none beside? 

Jill, do you recall 

When Spring, aquiver. 
Woke each waterfall. 

Valley, hill and river. 

How we went a-wending. 

Pals of Fancy Free, 
Ours for just the spending 

All eternity? 

Do you, too, remember still 

All ijje planned and dreamed for, Jill.^ 



53 



PERADVENTURE 

IS love so kind, 
Is love so blind 
As poets try to tell? 
Will love uphold 
The young and old 
As well? 

Is love so grave, 
Is love so brave 

To see the riddle through? 
Will love endure? 
I'm not quite sure — 

Are you? 



54 



VILLON 

SOMEHOW, I do not picture him as one 
Who brawled in dirty inns from dusk to dawn, 
Who slobbered wine and fondled gutter-spawn 
From daybreak, void of rest, till set of sun. 

He must have known the fields outside the town. 
Where flowers bloomed and little children 
played; 

He must have wandered there, and flung him down 
To dream awhile, unhindered, unafraid. 

I do not picture him as one to sell 

Untainted love for pleasures soon grown cold; 

I do not picture him as young or old. 
Because he sneered at love — then loved too well. 



55 



GOD IS SINGING 

Man : 

GOD is singing in the morning 
Some old song of toil and law; 
God is working on a vision 
Angels never saw. 

IV Oman: 

God is singing in the twilight 

Lullabies that have no theme; 
God is fashioning a cradle 

Out of pain and dream. 



56 



THERE ARE TWO LADIES IN OUR 
LITTLE TOWN 

THERE are two ladies in our little town 
Who look like Knossan ivory statuettes; 
They neither smile nor speak, as up and down 
The street they walk, both sombre with regret. 

Miss Maurya loves the world and fears to tell, 
Because she had a lover long ago; 

Miss Barbara believes the world a hell — 

Because she had a lover . . . strange, you know. 

To lift their sorrows, we would gladly give 
Our very all, and we have tried and tried. 

Their souls? One died when it had learned to live; 
The other did not live imtil it died. 



57 



THE PRAYER OF ISEULT OF THE 
WHITE HANDS 

WHEN I shall die, some folk will say 
That I was loth to go. 
He thoughtless. . . . They who talk that way 
Are not quite tired enough to know. 

When I shall die, dig deep the grave 

Beneath my hawthorn tree. 
Where earth I prayed on will not save 

The weary, wayward husk of me. 

I want to slumber on and on. 

Nor hear the wild birds sing. 
I shall not know of dusk or dawn, 

Of love or pain or anything. 

Oh, I shall never dream in vain 

When Spring laughs down the glen; 

And I shall never feel the rain, 

Nor weep weak tears, nor care again. 



58 



A LITTLE TOWN 

I KNOW a little town 
Hidden in the hills, 
A fair town, a rare town 
Of noisy saw-mills 

And bordered about 

By fields of ripe wheat, 

And barley, and clover 
Blossoming and sweet. 

I know a little town 

Of houses white. 
Where whistles blow mornings 

And bells ring at night. 

Where children play hide-and-seek 

And mumbledy-peg, 
Where no folk are rich folk 

And none has to beg. 

I know a little town 

Nestled in the blue 
Of low, long ago hills, — 

And you do, too! 



59 



SOUNDS 

I HEAR the selfsame sounds each day — 
The screech of wheel, the clang of bell. 
Whistles, and cries that fade away 
Like winds among the asphodel. 

But in the night, far in the night. 

The strangest whispers come to me 

From some vast deep, from some vast height. 
Suppose they ii:ere eternity! 



60 



GOD 

MY God is just a little chap, 
With curly hair and rosy cheeks, 
Who wears a checkered cricket-cap 

And smiles all day but seldom speaks. 

My God is hardly three feet tall; 

He never scolds nor gets real mad, 
Even when ugly wars befall, — 

But oh, his eyes are sad. 



61 



A VAGRANT'S RHYME 

LIFE is a mile on a cobbled road 
Of pain'; 
Life is a crust that's burned, a stinging goad, 
God's one reward the kiss of the rain. 

Vagrant I am till I come to die 

Amain ; 
Then for my soul to fly where wild birds fly! , 

My dust cool mud in the soft, dear rain. 



62 



RUE 

I NEVER see the dark 
Edging up the street 
But I think of nights 

Long, long ago, 
When we fashioned dream's. 
Dainty ones and sweet, 
Out of those things 
Only lovers know. 

I never hear the wind 

Singing day to sleep 
But I think how you. 

Long ago in Spring, 
Fled with all our dreams — 

As if that could keep 
Them and me and you 

From remembering! 



63 



GOSSIP 

I NEVER come nor go away, 
I never laugh nor sigh, 
I never stop to play — 

But gossip-elves are by. 

They find in all my simple deeds 
Subject for whispered words 

That multiply like weeds 

And noisy sparrow-birds. 

I wonder idly whether you 

(As I) are dancing now 
To stories, old and new, 

Blown through the world somehow? 



64 



HAUNTS 

I KNOW their haunts — the long, long dead- 
For in the night I hear them tread 
Out of the mists of yesterday 
Into the streets where old dreams play. . . . 

Here Guinevere and Lancelot 

Climb up the hills to Camelot; 

There Abelard and Heloise 

Saunter beneath the almond trees 

Of Paris town; in Rimini 

Paul and Francesca peacefully 

Walk through the moonlight hand in hand, 

For Dante, made to understand. 

Discards for aye his sorry hell. . . . 

I know their haunts, I know them well. 
My favorites have always been: 
Below dark walls the Fir-cone Inn, 
Where Frangois hides with smirk and leer, 
Until the windows, blindly drear. 
Tell him the past has slipped away; 
And Oxford Street, dust-blown and gray. 
Where Ann pursues her weary tramp 
But shuttered door and corner-lamp. 
I love these two more than the rest, 
And Oxford Street I love the best. 

65 



UNDER THE SEA 

AMONG no grasses whispering 
Old songs of high desire 
Shall I find death, nor yet where Spring 

Riots afire, 
But to a cavern, cold as snow, 

Where broods my destiny, 
Shall I arise some night and go — 
Under the sea, 
Under the sea. 

Upon no cloud-lumg mountain peak, 

Within no tangled glen 
Will husk of mine arouse to seek 

Its soul again, 
But in a cavern, child of night. 

They will combine and be 
A fearless essence, clear and white, — 

Under the sea, 

Under the sea. 



66 



INTERVAL 

You told ine why a flower grows, 
You told me how a spider spins, 

You told me where the ocean flows 
And where the dawn begins. 

You told me why a skylark sings. 

You told me why the night is black, 

} 'o7i told 77ie that a dream has wings 
To fly afar, and back. 

You gave me eyes and mind and soul. 

Then went away . . . Till you return 

I creep where waves of chaos roll 
And broken idols burn. 



67 



RAGNAROK 



[For Lester, Brotlier and Soldier] 



WAR! 

DROWNING the noise of cities, 
Louder than ocean's roar, 
Shivers the call of a nation's all: 
War! War! War! 

Out on the lonesome prairie, 

Over the sun-baked plain, 
Down in the street where the millions meet 

Rumbles the brave refrain: 

"We who are slow to anger, 

Ready to proffer ruth, 
Battle at last for our gloried past. 

Honor and right and truth! 

"God in his highest heaven 

Knows we have prayed for light; 

God will not blame, for we breathe his name 
Now, as we rise to smite!" 

Clearer than sound of bugle. 

Straight from the nation's core. 

Surges the hymn of a land grown grim: 
War! War! War! 



71 



A PRAYER 

THEY go with ringing laughter on their lips, 
They go with iron and glory in their hearts, 
They go — our hope — down to the hungry ships, 
And all the fields are lonely and the marts. 

We cannot know the horrors they are near, 

Nor dark and evil tides their might must 
stem. . . . 
O days, be fair! O nights, be sweet and clear! 

O hours that creep toward peace, be kind to 
them! 



n 



THERE ARE NO BOYS IN COLLEGE NOW 
^HERE are no boys in college now, but men! 



T" 



No longer do they saunter down the street, 

Bound for the theatres and picture-shows, 

Chaffing the girls (the pretty ones) they meet, 

Singing and whistling, full of fun— and pose. 

No longer do they bluff and flunk and cut. 

Then ask of "unfair" deans another chance; 

No longer do they think of pleasures, but 

How to get ready — quick — for jobs in France. 

O soft old days, never to live again, 
There are no boys in college now, but men! 



IZ 



AS OF YORE! 

AT Lexington and Concord rang the call. . . . 
Away with scythes, and over ditch and wall 
Rallied the Anglo-Saxon in our sires, 
Rallied and plunged unthinking in the fires! 

From immemorial days of wrack and flame 
They knew the forfeit — and they alwaj's came! 

At Gettysburg, Antietam, Mobile Bay, 
Our fathers showed that Right is strong to pay; 
Now in France, where Liberty's bell has pealed, 
Our flag and blood and honor take the field! 

Down through the ages, proud of heart and name. 
They knew the forfeit — and they always came! 



74 



SOULS 

I HAVE a German neighbor 
Who has a son 
Twelve years old. 
Yesterday afternoon 
He was playing in the yard. 
Some other youngsters passed 
And called out: 

"Hey, Jimmy, you Germans are going to get licked. 
How do you like being a German, Jimmy?" 
Jim's cheeks flamed 
And his little fists clenched. 
"I ain't a German, see!" he cried. 
And there were tears in his voice. . . . 

And his soul? 

Were tears there, too? 

We and ours 

Must be very careful these days 

About the souls 

Of youth. 



75 



WHO WILL BUY OUR DREAMS? 

WHO will buy our dreams? Why see, 
Here is one of Spring, 
Lilacs, April bashfully 
Learning how to sing! 

Here is one of ice and snows, 

Holly, Christmas trees; 
Here is one that dawns and glows 

Far on southern seas. 

Name a mood j-ou think yon love; 

Wc shall sell today 
All our hearts are masters of. 

Visions gold and gray. 

Wc are surging on to France, 

WHiere an Eagle screams: 
"Fight for God! Forget romance!" . . . 

W'ho will buy our dreams? 



76 



EXORDIUM 

WE reap the harvest tears and blood have sovk^n; 
We learn the lesson misery has taught; 
At last we face the Hun and not alone, 

For while we slumbered France and Britain 
fought. 

A chantey booms wherever sea-tides break; 

A glory warms the darkness as a spark . . . 
America has heard the voice of Drake! 

America has seen your face, Jeanne d'Arc! 



n 



THE SACRIFICE 

IF you should hear earth moan, and fail to heed; 
If you should turn your back on writhing pain; 
If you should close your eyes when nations bleed, 
You would be one with Cain ! 

Although you give your riches to the state. 

Although you yield your body, clean and whole, 

You shall receive a dim reward from fate — 
You must present your soul! 



78 



MASTER FRANCOIS, CLERK OF PARIS, 
SINGS FROAl THE GRAVE 

FALLEN on strange ways, 
I rejoiced in sombre things — 
Stormy nights and brawling days 
And the sadness singing brings. 

Born in sorry times, 

I exulted with my kind 
In mad deeds and madder rhymes 

And the evil I could find. 

Fallen on strange ways. 

These loves only wove romance 
Through the fever of my days — 

Sword and tankard, song and France. 



79 



THE SILENT SINGERS 

THOSE boys, the lyric ones who diced with death 
In Belgian villages and fields of France; 
Those boys who passed with songs on their last 
breath 
Left to the world an autograplied romance. 

But oh, the rest: the million silent chaps! 

Their hymns of praise, their chants of finer gold, 
They saved for days beyond the sound of taps, 

And each anthology the seraphs hold. 



80 



JOAN OF ARC WAS THERE! 

I WALKED along the boulevard. 
Across each quiet square; 
I saw young faces, grim and scarred, — 
And Joan of Arc was there! 

I sought the town of Domremy, 
And found it calm and fair, 

Just as they said it used to be 
When Joan of Arc was there. 

I sought the north, where battles gleam, 
And youth the brave and yare 

Is dying for an old, old dream — 
And Joan of Arc was there! 

"O God of Justice, France is blessed!" 
My simple, humble prayer 

Broke forth like lightning in my breast, 
For Joan of Arc ivas there! 



81 



ROBIN HOOD 

ROBIN HOOD, Robin Hood, wind your horn 
ag'ain, 
Break tlTC Sherwood silence, call your merrie men! 

Robin, England staggers, horrible in pain; 

I-eave your sleepy forest, thunder down the plain, 

Dim your olden glory, shame your olden skill, — 
Trench can never stop you, bog, nor barren hill! 

That is Vimy Ridge there, just an ugly scar. 
But in every British heart glowing like a star! 

Robin, Robin, Robin, summon all your men! 
God and Merrie England! take the field again! 



82 



"VIVE LA FRANCE!" 

"So Joseph Jacques Cesaire Joffre rode into the 
heart of Neiv York." — Neivs Item. 

OVER the roar and clangor, 
Sharp as a soldier's lance, 
Thundered the diapason: 
"Vive la France!" 

Women and little children. 

Fervid and wonder-strung, 
Work-worn men, knowing youth again. 

Cheered in an alien tongue. 

Broadway, the mark of sneerers, 

Streets that have awed the earth, 

Bathed the air in a glow of prayer — 
Hope in the throes of birth. 

Out of the sobs and tumult, 

Crown of a world's romance, 

Trembled the benediction: 
"Vive la France!" 



83 



'BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE, AND AWAY!' 

NEARLY a hundred years ago 
Three bards flourished and toiled and died, 
Still in the glamour youth may know, 
Life a joy, but its best untried. 

Nearly a hundred years ago 
Three bards vanished as sunsets go. 
Leaving a fame no time-god cheats — 
Shelley and BjTon and Keats. 

Now, in the span of two short years, 

Youngsters of sword as well as song 

Pay romance on the far frontiers. 

Death a joy, for their hearts were strong. 

What of the songs they might have sung? 
Deeds are songs when the world is young! 
Dreams, and death for a fleeting look — 
Ledwidge and Seeger and Brooke. 



84 



IN A HOSPITAL 

NEARER the cot she leant 
To looTc at the shattered clod. 
"So this," she whispered, "was what he meant 
By dottig his bit for God." 

Slowly she rose and turned. 

"His bit and his God," she said. 
Her bosom heaved and her two cheeks burned, 

But her eyes, her eyes were dead. 



85 



CUL-DE-SAC 

IF all the wonder of a child 
And all a mother's love could be 
Refined in some vast crucible 

And scattered, warm and free, 
Through all the hearts in all the worlds 
That gleam and hurtle down the blue. 
What would the war-gods dare to think — 
Or do? 



86 



A LITTLE SONG 

I KNOW that war is very mad; 
I know that life is blind with tears, 
Dulling her dreams, so fair and glad, 

In other years. 
I know that love is growing wan— 
And yet a little song sings on. 

I know some evil thing is fired 

With all of Earth's abysmal pain; 

I know that God, distraught and tired, 
Would sleep again. 

I know these things but, night and dawn, 

A little song throbs on and on. 



87 



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